


Hell Is Empty

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo [2013] [4]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Community: hc_bingo, Delirium, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nobody Expects The Spanish Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 06:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1053751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Companion to "And All The Devils Are Here." Stands alone, but it might be better to read this one first.</p><p>Crowley goes to investigate this Inquisition he supposedly helped to start and finds Aziraphale instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hell Is Empty

Crowley will never cease to be impressed with the things that humans come up with all on their own. Sure, he might have had a hand in sending Columbus in the wrong direction,1 but he doesn’t often put the ideas into their heads. Most of the time, humans are fine with coming up with evil on their own.

The Inquisition is not his idea at all.

Which is why, when he gets the commendation not only for the Inquisition itself but for the capture and torture of an angel (when he hasn’t done much of anything in months, let alone torture anyone, for Someone’s sake), he gets rather confused.

And then he gets rather displeased.

The thing is, there’s only really one angel who’s been on Earth as long as he has, and over the years he’s grown rather fond of him. This thing they have between them, this arrangement, hasn’t been in place long - maybe a few centuries - but it _works_. And so the news that someone has been tormenting his angel, and doing so _improperly_ ,2 sets his teeth on edge.

He goes as quickly as he can to Barcelona, just to check up on things, mind you, and when he gets there (disguised as a church official, just to keep up with his blasphemy quota), he almost incinerates the guard who opens the door.

Aziraphale is shackled to the wall, but it’s completely unnecessary. His arms and legs are swollen and bruised at the joints, and hanging at odd angles. Every breath that makes it past his cracked lips is labored. His skin is bone white where it isn’t covered in filth from the floor or burned or bleeding. But he turns his head to see who’s come in, and the look in his eyes as he recognizes Crowley is worst of all. It’s faith, a full-on beam of it, tempered with the absolute truth.

That look - knowing that Aziraphale had been waiting for him, had believed so strongly that he would come, and had been _right_ \- means that Crowley makes three decisions in rapid succession.

One: to get drunk as a bloody lord.

Two: to wipe the minds of everyone in the building, and all the records, too, so that no one remembers that they ever had an angel there.

Three: to get Aziraphale as far from these monsters as possible.

Not necessarily in that order.

“Aziraphale?” says Crowley, kneeling at his side. “ _Aziraphale_.”

Aziraphale tries to talk, but Crowley puts a finger over his lips. “Shhh, angel. I’m getting you out of here, just be quiet and I’ll try not to jostle you too badly.” 

He grabs the key out of the stunned guardsman’s hand - let him gawp, he’ll have forgotten all this in a moment, anyway - and unlocks Aziraphale’s chains. “Come on, now,” he says, and scoops him up as gently as he can, as there is no way he’ll be able to walk with his joints all out of alignment. 

Unfortunately, Crowley’s “gentle” isn’t gentle enough. Aziraphale cries out into Crowley’s shoulder, and Crowley has to make a conscious effort not to tighten his grip. He walks, slowly and with purpose, out the door, to the waiting cart, and feels the need to apologize for every footstep.

He doesn’t.

He wrings the apologies out of the clerics’ throats instead, right before he makes them forget what they’re supposed to be sorry for.

* * *

As a rule, demons do not miracle. It’s simply not in their nature to miracle. That’s part of the celestial power package, and Crowley simply doesn’t have the skill set.

But when he sets Aziraphale - gently, gently - on the bed in the tiny inn he’s staying at, and he tells him, “Angel, it’s safe now, you can heal yourself,” Aziraphale shakes his head. 

“Hard to… concentrate, I’m afraid,” he whispers, the words a thin rasp in his throat. 

Crowley blesses so fiercely that Aziraphale looks almost offended. “Alright,” he says, more to steel himself than anything, “alright, angel. I can try, but it’s not like anything you’d do, I’m not built for that-”

“It’s perfectly alright,” says Aziraphale, and actually tries to pat Crowley on the arm,3 like he doesn’t care that he’s entrusting his current corporeal form to Crowley’s clumsy hands.

“It’s going to hurt,” he warns.

“Already does.”

Crowley takes a deep breath, looks straight at Aziraphale, and _wills_.

Because will, really, isn’t much different than a miracle. It’s a lot harder, yes, and certainly not as quick or painless, but it gets the job done. Humans have quite a lot of will, but demons have infernal powers to go with it, and so Crowley wills Aziraphale’s dislocated joints back into their sockets as hard as he can. They move into place with a sickening popping noise. Tears begin to leak out of the corner of Aziraphale’s eyes, and he slips into unconsciousness when Crowley resets his shoulders. Crowley winces but holds on, not allowing petty things like _emotions_ or _breathing_ to distract him until he’s got everything realigned.

When he’s finished, Aziraphale’s joints are mostly fixed, but they’re still very swollen and bruised, and there’s a tear in one of his hip muscles that Crowley couldn’t get right. He’s still dotted with burns and scabbing wounds. But it’ll have to do.

Crowley draws the blankets over Aziraphale, trusts that he’ll sleep long enough to give Crowley some time for his own, and goes out to get a pint.

He comes back after drinking a gallon.

* * *

Aziraphale doesn’t sleep.

Aziraphale burns.

In the night, Crowley cleans his infected wounds with the oldest wine he has, blessing the entire time. He heaps blankets on him when he shivers, and sponges him with wet cloths when Aziraphale’s forehead is as hot as Hell.

It’s when he tries to get Aziraphale to drink something - “Just some water, angel, you can manage that”  - that Aziraphale screams. He’s coughing, the sip of water in his mouth spattering against the sheets, and Crowley helps him to sit up so he doesn’t choke.

“Please, stop,” he says, “I’m sorry, yes, I did it, please,” and he’s crying, and Crowley _does not handle crying angels_ , but he puts the cup down anyway and insinuates himself under the covers to get a grip on Aziraphale properly, and holds him to his chest, hissing nothing at all under his breath, until his sobs sputter out and ease into something softer. Then he slithers out of bed guiltily, because even if the angel needed it, it doesn’t mean he _likes_ cuddling.

He waits until Aziraphale’s fever is broken before offering the cup again.

* * *

“They thought I was a witch,” Aziraphale explains later. He’s still in bed with all the covers wrapped around him, as Crowley has categorically refused to let him so much as hold a spoon without help, but he’s managed to sit up (though propped with pillows) and isn’t so as dry-sounding anymore, isn’t so horribly pale. He might be able to miracle his own healing soon.

Crowley groans. “Please tell me you didn’t do anything so remarkably stupid as to miracle something in front of a human.”

“Er-”

“You _did_ , didn’t you? You probably saved some sick child - who, knowing your luck, is going to grow up to be the next Gilles de Rais-”4

“It was a woman who was kicked by a horse,” says Aziraphale primly, “and she was certainly not a Gilles de Rais kind of person. She was quite nice." 

“ _Quite nice?_ Oh, I didn’t realize that the only qualification for _performing miracles in front of superstitiousss peasantsss_ was for them to not be _arssseholes_.”

“Some things are more important than personal safety,” says Aziraphale. “Even if I’d discorporated, I’d come back. She wouldn’t’ve.”

“You almost _did_ discorporate,” says Crowley. “And if you had, I would have been-” he stutters for a bit, before settling on, “very inconvenienced.”

“I’m sure you would have been, dear boy,” Aziraphale says, “but I wasn’t quite thinking about that at the time.”  
  
“You weren’t thinking about anything except that bint you saved.”

“It all came right, didn’t it?” says Aziraphale. “I knew it had to, sooner or later. All evil is thwarted in the end.”

“It might not have been, angel,” says Crowley. “I might have come too late, or not at all.”

“But you did,” says Aziraphale, and there’s that bloody _faith_ in his eyes again, enough to make Crowley break out in hives. He goes out and gets drunk again, rather than acknowledge the truth of that faith.

He doesn’t come back for a week, and when he does come back, Aziraphale is gone.

* * *

1 He’d meant to cause some general frustration and ended up getting a commendation for the whole Taíno thing.

2 The proper way includes getting him drunk and putting his books out of order. 

3 As moving anything is near impossible at this point, it’s more of a slight twitch in the general direction of Crowley’s arm. 

4 For non-history majors, non-serial killer enthusiasts, non-Wikipedia trawlers, and other boring people, Gilles de Rais was a solider who served with Joan of Arc. He also molested and murdered small children. He was not a very nice person.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the hurt/comfort bingo square for "Witch Hunt." Only this is more the effects of a witch hunt. Whatever.


End file.
